Читать книгу Visiting Consultant - Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

IT WAS striking ten as Sophy let herself into the house on Wednesday evening. True to the promise she had made herself, she had gone out just before lunch; spent the afternoon with Tom Carruthers’ wife, stretching her visit for as long as good manners allowed, and then walked most of the way home. Even then it had been far too early, and she had been forced to spend a long hour drinking cups of coffee she didn’t want, while she reflected on the waste of a precious day off.

The hall was dim and quiet. It smelled of polish and the tantalising post-prandial aroma of toasted cheese. She felt her appetite sharpen, and went straight to the kitchen. Sinclair always made tea for himself before bedtime; she would have one with him and enquire about the cheese; there might be some left. Sinclair looked up as she went into the cosy, old-fashioned room and jumped to his feet.

‘Thought you might be in, Miss Sophy,’ he said. ‘How about a nice cuppa, and there’s a slice of Quiche Lorraine I’ve kept warm.’ He pushed the elderly arm chair by the Aga invitingly in her direction. ‘Sit down.’

Sophy did as she was bid, tossing her hat and gloves on to the table.

‘You’re tired, Miss Sophy.’ He handed her a plate, and she picked up a fork and started to eat with a healthy appetite.

‘Yes, Sinclair.’ She took a satisfying draught of the black, syrupy tea Sinclair preferred. ‘I wish I wasn’t plain,’ she said, apropos of nothing at all. Sinclair seemed to understand.

‘You’re not plain, Miss Sophy; you only think you are, especially when you’re tired or upset or down in the dumps.’

She smiled at him. ‘You are a dear, Sinclair. Did the children have a nice trip?’ she asked in a carefully casual voice.

He nodded. ‘They went to Canterbury.’

‘Canterbury? But that’s miles away.’

‘Yes, miss, but not in a Bentley, it isn’t. They went all round the Cathedral and had a bang-up tea. They were back by half-past six. This doctor, he stayed to supper; very merry they were too. Helped Master Ben with his Latin too.’ He got up and put the cups in the sink. ‘They went to bed punctual, miss.’

Sophy got up and went slowly to the door. ‘I’m glad they enjoyed themselves,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Goodnight, Sinclair.’

Her grandmother was in the sitting room as she went in. She looked up, pencil poised. ‘Hullo, darling. What’s a fanatical artist making a bid?’

Sophy went and sat near the fire on a little velvet-covered stool and held her nicely-kept hands out to its warmth. ‘Rabid,’ she said. ‘How are you, Granny?’

Her grandmother wrote rapidly. ‘You’re right, darling. How clever of you. Did you have a nice day?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, ‘The children had a lovely afternoon with Max…’

Sophy stirred. ‘Max already,’ she thought, and said out loud, ‘How nice for them. They were back before supper, so Sinclair tells me.’

‘Yes, dear. Max stayed; he looked lonely. We had Quiche Lorraine, and Sinclair made a lovely treacle tart—we saved some for you. Where was I? Oh, yes. Max ate a good supper, but he’s a big man, isn’t he? He helped Ben with his Latin…’

‘It’s like listening to a gramophone record,’ thought Sophy, and at the same time waited eagerly for anything else her grandmother had to say. She wondered what it was about this man that could make Sinclair and her grandmother so interested in him—and me too, she added honestly. ‘I’ve thought about him ever since I first saw him.’

‘I wonder how old he is?’ she mused.

‘Thirty-nine, and not married. He lives close to a small river in Holland—it’s pretty there, he said, and near Utrecht. He’s a Senior Consulting Surgeon at a hospital there, and teaches the students, too. He’s got a spaniel called Meg, and a bulldog called Jack.’

Mrs Greenslade paused to draw a much-needed breath, and Sophy said, ‘Granny, what a lot you know about him.’

Her grandmother looked at her shrewdly. ‘Nothing that he wouldn’t have told you, if you’d asked him, my dear Sophy. I thought it would be nice if he lunched here on Sunday—it’s your day off, isn’t it?—I know you see him most days, but I don’t suppose you get to know much about the people you work with in that theatre—why, I don’t suppose you see the patients as people; just—something, under a lot of sterile sheets. And as for working there, how can you possibly get to know anybody when all you can see of them is their eyes?’ She sounded indignant.

Sophy twisted round on her stool. ‘It’s not like that at all, Grandmother,’ she cried. She was remembering the Dutch surgeon’s face when he had bent over the little girl the previous Sunday. ‘He…we all mind about the patients, and when we’re working it’s like a team.’

Her grandmother looked across at her. ‘I’m glad to hear it, Sophy. I was beginning to think you didn’t like Max.’ She took no notice of her granddaughter’s gasp. ‘We’ll have roast pork, I think, and follow it with a mince tart and cream, and Sinclair shall go to that funny little grocer’s shop where there are all those cheeses. Men always like cheese,’ she added. She took off her glasses, and looked ten years younger. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, I’m quite tired.’ She didn’t look in the least tired. She folded the newspaper carefully, so that the crossword was on top, ready for the morning, and got up. Sophy got up too, unwilling to be left alone with her thoughts. She wished Grandmother Greenslade a good night, and went upstairs to her room. Once there, she didn’t undress but stood in front of the big, old-fashioned mirror, gazing intently at her face. It seemed to her that however she looked at it, it was still a plain one.

The next morning, she offered a surprised and delighted Cooper Sunday off in her place—Staff was so wrapped in her good luck that she lent only half an ear to Sophy’s singularly thin reasons for wishing to make the change; which, thought Sophy, was just as well. Sophy said nothing at home until Saturday evening, and received the sympathetic remarks of her family with a quietness which they put down to her disappointment at missing Sunday luncheon. She was feeling horribly guilty, especially as Jonkheer van Oosterwelde had been so pleasant in theatre.

It was a fine morning as she walked to the hospital on Sunday. There was a blue sky and the sun shone, although there was no warmth in its rays, but Sophy’s spirits did not match the morning; for all she cared, it could have been blowing a force nine gale, with rain to match.

She spent the first part of the morning in theatre, teaching the two junior nurses who were on duty with her. The place was in a state of readiness and uncannily quiet—their voices sounded strange against the emptiness of the big tiled room. After a time, she set the girls to cleaning instruments and went off to Orthopaedic theatre to have coffee with Sister Skinner; a lovely blonde who looked like a film star and fell in and out of love so frequently that Sophy had long ago given up trying to remember who the men were; but she was always prepared to lend a sympathetic ear while Skinner discussed her latest conquest. Inevitably, she wanted to know about the new surgeon.

‘I must meet him,’ she exclaimed. ‘I saw him leaving the other day; he didn’t see me,’ she added, ‘or he might have stopped.’

Sophy chuckled. ‘Of course he’d have stopped…’

Skinner put down her coffee. ‘Sophy, ring me when you have a coffee break on Monday—you’ve got a list, haven’t you? We haven’t. I’ll pop over and borrow something, then you can introduce me.’ She looked at Sophy with a puzzled frown. ‘Is he as nice as he looks?’

Sophy nodded. ‘Oh, yes. He’s very good at his job, and he never loses his needle or throws swabs on the floor…’

‘Silly, I didn’t mean his work. Look, Sophy, he’s good-looking and distinguished and a marvellous surgeon—if I’d been in your shoes I’d have been out to dinner with him by now.’

Sophy laughed. ‘I know you would; but I’m not you, my dear. You’re so pretty men look at you and want to take you out—but if you were a man, would you look twice at me?’ She spoke without rancour as she got up to go. ‘I’ll ring you about eleven on Monday. Tom Carruthers will be assisting; I’ll get him out of the way, and leave you alone to exercise your charms.’

She called in on Casualty on her way back, but although it was full, there was nothing for the theatre. She sent the nurses to their dinner, and went into her office and started on her books, but after a few minutes she got up again, and stood by the window, watching the coming and going in the inner courtyard below. She was just turning away, when she caught sight of Bill Evans and Max van Oosterwelde strolling through the archway from X-Ray. They were deep in discussion, although Bill seemed to be doing most of the talking; he was a tall young man, but the Dutchman dwarfed him. Half way across the yard, they met Tom Carruthers, and stopped. She wondered what they could be talking about; nothing serious, for there was a good deal of laughter. Anyway, Jonkheer van Oosterwelde wasn’t on call; she supposed he’d come in to see someone. He looked up suddenly, and although he was too far away for her to be sure of his expression, she was sure that he frowned when he saw her. She backed away from the window—how awful to be caught peeping. She went into the theatre, and prowled around moving things that didn’t need moving, and after a few minutes went back to her office again, and peeped cautiously from the window. He had gone. She got out the instrument catalogue and started to make a list of replacements, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was contemplating an excellent illustration of Syme’s aneurism needle with little more than tepid interest, when she heard the faint squeak of the swing doors at the end of the corridor. It wouldn’t be the nurses; they had only been gone ten minutes or so; and the third year nurse wasn’t due on until one o’clock. She sat up straight—it was a man’s tread, and she knew whose tread it was. She quelled a strong urge to rearrange her cap and do something to her face, and waited, hands in lap, with her eyes to the door.

He came in without knocking, closed the door behind him, stood with his back to it, and said without preamble, ‘What have I done?’

Sophy’s lovely eyes opened wide, framed by the curling sweep of black lashes; her mouth was open too; she closed it with something of a snap, and blinked. ‘I don’t think I quite understand,’ she faltered.

Max van Oosterwelde left the door and settled himself in the chair opposite hers. He was wearing tweeds—unobtrusive, superbly cut, and she thought, wildly expensive. He stretched out a long arm and took the off-duty rota from the desk.

‘You had a day off today; you changed it, and don’t give me any nonsense about Staff Nurse wanting it—she told me about it on Friday.’

He grinned wickedly, and Sophy, choking on rage, didn’t mince her words.

‘You have no right to…to…’ She caught his eye.

‘To what?’ he enquired silkily.

‘The nurses’ off-duty is no concern of yours.’ She remembered who he was, and added, ‘Sir.’

‘No, it’s not, but we stray from the point, do we not? You took care to be away from home last Wednesday. I had dinner with the Carruthers, you know; you left there soon after five; you weren’t home when I left at nine. I thought maybe you were out with a boyfriend; and then I heard that you had changed your duty today, and it seemed more than coincidence and that you had done it deliberately. Do you dislike me so much, Sophy?’

Sophy dragged her gaze away from the waste paper basket, and gave him a level look. ‘I don’t dislike you.’ Her voice was quiet and faintly surprised.

‘Then I suggest you drop your guard, my girl. I’ve no intention of laying violent hands on you, nor,’ he went on deliberately, ‘am I interested in flirting with you.’ He watched her face flame with a detached air. ‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t be friends, do you? After all, we share a godfather—that is surely a sound enough motive for friendship?’

She met his eyes and saw that he was smiling. She ignored her heart bouncing against her ribs, and said in an even little voice, ‘I’m afraid I’ve become a real old maid in the last few years.’ She managed a very credible smile, and put a hand in the one he was holding out. His clasp was firm and comforting. She needed comfort, but he wouldn’t know that, of course.

‘No, never that—old maids don’t climb trees.’

He relinquished her hand, and picked up the telephone and asked for Matron.

Sophy listened to the conversation, and it was at once apparent to her that he was going to get his own way, although she doubted if Matron would realise it. He put down the receiver and got up.

‘Ten past one at the front door? You’ll have to keep your uniform on, I’m afraid, just in case they need you in a great hurry. Don’t be late—I promised Mrs Greenslade we would be there by a quarter past one.’

Sophy looked at him with raised eyebrows. ‘You promised Granny…’ her eyes searched his face. ‘But they’re not expecting me.’

He was halfway through the door. ‘Yes, they are. I forgot to mention that I telephoned your grandmother and told her that you would be home for luncheon.’

She frowned. ‘Well, really!’ she exploded. She stopped; he had already gone.

He sat next to Mrs Greenslade at luncheon, and carved the joint as well if not better than Uncle Giles would have done. Sophy saw that he was on the friendliest terms with Penny and Benjamin, and it was obvious that her grandmother had been completely won over. Even Sinclair, who took his dislikes and likes seriously, approved of him. They had their coffee around the sitting room’s bright fire, surrounded by the Sunday papers and Penny’s discarded knitting and a half-finished jig-saw puzzle Ben had tired of. Mrs Greenslade sat on one side of the fire, her current crossword on her lap, and the enormous dictionary she was never without serving its dual purpose as a foot-stool. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde occupied the chair opposite her, with the Blot pressed hard against one knee, half-shut eyes expressing the bliss of having his ears rubbed. Titus had spread himself across the Dutchman’s well polished shoes, ignoring the offers of a lap from the other occupants of the room.

Sophy, curled up in a corner of the couch said, ‘Isn’t it extraordinary, how they like you? They’re usually so fussy.’

She saw his lips twitch and his dark brows lift, and blushed and said hastily, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry, but you must know what I mean. Perhaps it’s because they sense you’ve got dogs of your own.’

‘Very probably,’ he replied, ‘though I would prefer to think that it was good taste on their part.’

Amid the general laughter, Penny asked, ‘Don’t they miss you while you’re away; your animals, I mean?’

‘Yes, very much, I believe, but they have plenty of friends, and I think that the welcome I receive is largely an act.’

Sophy glanced at her watch, and got up reluctantly. Her grandmother gave her a smooth cheek to kiss and said,

‘Must you go, darling?—such a shame when we’re all so cosy. Anyway, I hope you have a nice afternoon,’ she added vaguely. Max had risen too, and was already at the door. ‘Don’t be long, Max,’ she called as they went out.

They didn’t talk on the short trip to the hospital; there wasn’t time anyway. Sophy thanked him briefly as she got out, and ran up the hospital steps without looking back. Half an hour later, she was scrubbing up beside Tom Carruthers; there was a nasty face injuries in—too serious for Cas to deal with. It was no sooner on the table than the telephone rang; there was an acute obstruction just in and perhaps Mr Carruthers would go and see him as soon as he could. Tom Carruthers growled something under his breath, and Sophy sent the nurse back with a polite message to say that he would be down as soon as he could manage it. It turned out to be one of those afternoons when there could be no pause for tea; the obstruction took a long time, and it was almost six o’clock by the time they had finished and Tom and Dr Walker had followed the porters out of the theatre. Sophy and the two nurses on duty cleared up with the speed of long use, and she sent them to supper while she sat in the quiet theatre, doing the needles, her mind full of the little girl Max van Oosterwelde had operated upon the week before. Tom had told her quietly, as he left the theatre, that the child had died. ‘Van Oosterwelde saw her this morning,’ he had said, ‘but there was nothing he could do. Decent of him to come in, though. After all, it was his day off, and he didn’t get to bed until four am—been out on the town.’ Sophy sorted the last of the needles, and tried not to remember that remark. It could mean so many things. She shook her neat head as though to shake the thought away. It was none of her business, anyway, but she couldn’t stop herself reflecting on the number of very pretty girls on the nursing staff who would doubtless make excellent companions for a man who wished to go out on the town.

She got up and tidied away the bits and pieces, and when the nurses came back from supper, sent them off duty. She would be going home herself very soon. In a little while, she switched off the lights and went along to change.